


Every Dream and Waking Hour

by Puke_Silver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jon is of age, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Work, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puke_Silver/pseuds/Puke_Silver
Summary: A two-part drabble.Jon has his first experience in a brothel//Theon offers Jon a hand.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> cw: alcohol

Jon trails behind, his chest tight and his head thrumming in time with the frozen crunch of his steady footsteps.

_They’ve finally done it._

He pulls a rough hand down his face, shutting his eyes to the slip of a soft groan. His tongue sits fat and dry in his mouth, and he feels he might be sick.

_Talked me into it…_

The night is cold, the flicker of Wintertown’s light silhouetting Robb’s and Theon’s stumbling forms, rimmed in crowns of gold and orange—their backs to Jon; arms tossed casually around each others’ shoulders as their drunken voices drift, lofty and crude through the hush of blue snow.

_Seven Hells._

On a deep breath, Jon clears his throat and pulls another long sip from the wineskin, his dark curls falling thick and damp around his face.

By now, they have reached the edge of town. Lanterns hang in darkened doorways—wood and stone creaking to the whistle of the wind. And so grimacing, Jon swallows the last of the bitter amber liquid and stops, trying to settle himself.

He is shaking, he realizes then, as he struggles to cork his flaccid wineskin—fingers blunt and clumsy. And to his shame, Jon surmises just now, that it is not the drink, which causes such a graceless state.

And so he shuts his eyes once more—as if closing himself off from the heat of his own embarrassment; from his own trembling nerves. But before he can calm, Robb’s voice causes him to startle.

And so, Jon’s eyes flit open.

“Keep up, Snow!” his brother calls, turning back for just a moment—the gleam of his white smile catching quick in the lanternlight. He is draped against Theon, their laughter peeling to the rooftops in ribbons of boisterous merriment.

Jon clenches his jaw.

“Aye, bastard!” Theon calls then, in choir, “Else yer balls will freeze off before we even get there!”

He should not be so easily riled, he knows. But the slight sends a blush to his face all the same. And so, with a furrowed brow, Jon huffs a breath of indignation and kicks up his pace, hustling to join his companions.

He feels as though the night has swallowed him whole.

In the town, horses whicker in their stalls, an inn’s door slams shut, and a thick black dog barks its alarm. But Jon barely registers such events—focused rather on the reliable beat of his boots against hardened snow, stained black from a day’s happenings.

He follows Robb and Theon as if tethered to them, his body moving of its own accord. And before long, they are standing in front of the door to the tavern.

Theon turns round then, and places a hand on Jon’s shoulder, cracking a crooked leer. “You ready, Snow?” he asks as Robb settles to his side.

And to this, Jon is lost for words. But still he nods, swallowing hard before permitting the slipped rush of a labored exhale. All the same, he straightens himself best he can—a picture of collection and courage he hopes—and Theon’s hand tightens in the thick of his wool cloak.

“You’ll leave this night a man,” Theon promises, meeting Jon’s eyes as his smile flickers to the edge of something akin to earnest pride. And with that, he pushes the oak door on its hinges, cutting the night with a sliver of warm, tavern light.

They step inside and immediately, Jon feels warmed—the taproom’s air steamed hot by the breath of drunken men. A fire crackles in the hearth, its flames snapping through the steady hum of conversation, which clouds thick through the tavern’s wooden eaves.

Jon shakes the snow from his boots and looks around, pulling off his gloves, one leather finger at a time—his eyes blown black in the room’s low light.

In the corner a bearded man paws at a serving maid, horns of ale clattering in her hands as she tolerates such lecherous attentions, laughing and throwing her head back. And it’s then that Jon realizes her breasts have come free of her bodice, long blond curls hanging equally low, caressing her pale skin.

At the sight Jon feels his breeches tighten. And so he moves to look away. But before he can cast his gaze aside, Theon grabs his arm.

“You like her?” he asks, his grin wide—knowing.

In answer, Jon licks his lips—throat bobbing white in his neck as his eyes dart back and forth in a tug of uncertainty. 

_Yes. No. I…_

Theon senses his distress and laughs—a noise born of equal amusement and gentleness. “You worry too much, bastard,” he says, words uncharacteristically heartfelt as he grabs Jon by the shoulders, guiding him towards the tavern’s stairs.

And so Jon moves, out of body—blood warmed and his head afloat—he lets Theon drive him.

They reach the stairs then, but before Jon can take the first step, a woman bars his path. Her smile is wide—hair red and thick. 

“Is this the boy?” she asks, her tongue dancing quick between her two perfect, pink lips. She smiles wider then, and reaches out a hand, moving deft fingers to smooth the pleats of Jon’s cloak. “You didn’t tell me he was so handsome,” she says, her voice warm and her hands hot, even through his leathers.

Face flushing red, something in Jon’s heart breaks then—the potential for affection, acceptance, or maybe even adoration grazing just at the edge of his admission. His mind cannot accept it, but nonetheless, Jon’s body rises to the occasion, and he finds himself hardening thick in his britches.

But before Jon can think of a reply, Theon shoves a hand out, a thick coin glinting bright between fingers. “Aye, he’s got pretty hair,” Theon says, handing the gold to the woman and leaning in closer, a wicked grin on his face. “But don’t forget what I’ve got.”

The woman laughs at this. “Never, m’lord,” she answers, offering a playful push to Theon’s chest before redirecting her smile to Jon.

Theon turns too, Robb now grinning by his side. “Ros will take care of you,” Theon says, nodding sincerely as he claps a hand to Jon’s back. “She’s the best.”

And to this, Jon can do nothing but nod—grateful and nervous in equal measure—his heart racing in his chest.

For her part, Ros seems to sense his apprehension, and she moves gently towards him, taking his hand with a soft smile. “You’ll be well looked after, m’lord… Now come with me.” 

And so Jon follows—one step at a time, he is led behind her, until they reach a thick wooden door. And with a turn of a doorknob, and the whisper of soft slippers against flat stone, Jon is pulled inside her chambers.

The room is large, a four-postered bed set in the center—all heavy furs and plump pillows. Lining the walls, a hundred candles offer their spotted light, filling the room with a warm, steady glow. This scene is one of comforts, and yet Jon has a hard time allowing himself ease.

“You can come in, m’lord,” Ros says, a coy smile playing on her lips. And it’s then Jon realizes he’s not moved from the doorframe. So with anxious resolve he does so—just a little.

“I’m—” he starts then, noting the flicker of ‘ _oh so he does speak_ ’ surprise, which crosses Ros’ face. He clears his throat. “I’m not a lord.”

“No?” Ros asks, her smile kind.

Jon shakes his head. “No… I’m—I’m a bastard.”

“I see,” Ros answers. “And you wouldn’t like to pretend otherwise, just for the night?” She asks earnestly. 

_Yes._

Jon’s stomach roils. And with the question, Jon has the sense that Ros already knows exactly who he is. Still, he does not agree. Lying has never suited him, despite the comfort such a fantasy might permit. “No.” Jon answers.

Her eyes spark with something akin to surprise—or maybe even fascination. “Hmm, then what should I call you?”

Jon moistens his lips. “Jon.”

“Jon,” she agrees—her voice tender as she looks him up and down, her eyes grey and seeing before she pauses. “Would you like a drink, Jon?”

Jon hesitates, shifting on his feet. But in a matter of seconds, he nods.

And so with quiet grace, Ros moves to the small table, which rests in the corner. She pours a stream of amber ale from the mouth of the gleaming decanter. One glass for Jon and one for herself; Ros hands his over.

And with a demure smile, Jon accepts the drink.

“Come,” Ros says smoothly, taking Jon’s hand and pulling him towards a wooden chair. “Sit.”

And so he does, settling himself—one hand fisted clenched against his thigh; a boot tapping anxiously. Jon raises his glass then—crystal rim firm between full lips—and downs the ale readily, one certain swallow to quell his nerves. It warms in his throat.

And as if equally warmed, Ros suddenly moves to straddle his lap, removing the empty glass from his hands, she places it on the table before throwing her long, pale arms around his shoulders. From this position, she holds Jon’s gaze.

For his part, Jon’s mouth has fallen open in a slack of longing surprise; breath coming in short, clipped pants as if he’s only just now learning how to breathe.

But Ros has the grace to act as though she does not notice. And instead she raises a confident hand, carding slender fingers through Jon’s curls. Her nails scrape against his scalp as heat pools fast and quick in his groin. And just then, with her other hand, Ros begins to fondle the lobe of his left ear, kneading the flesh ever so gently.

By now Jon’s heart is in his throat.

“You really are handsome,” she says, smiling as she meets his widened eyes once more. 

And with the compliment, Jon finds himself at full-mast—harder than ever and embarrassed that Ros must surely feel the full length of his desire.

But before Jon can dwell for too much longer—on either shame or on wanting—she leans in and offers him a kiss. Her mouth is soft—sweet and wet. And instantly, Jon is lost in it. His head swims, his cock jumping against her skirts—betraying his eagerness.

_Seven Hells._

Her tongue slips past his teeth, and pushes further into his mouth. And to this Jon opens, accepting the breach readily. It’s wet and warm and—

_Gods…_

—like nothing he’s ever felt before. And soon Jon’s thighs begin to tremble, a needy groan scraping deep from the back of his throat as the sound makes itself seen. Ros responds in answer, smiling against Jon’s mouth before she pulls back, dragging the plump of his bottom lip as she does so—bite just verging on painful.

Jon moans again, eyes fluttering open. And here Ros stares, her lips red and waiting.

_She’s so beautiful._

And before Jon can stop himself, he is raising a hand, grazing open fingers through the tendrils of Ros’ auburn hair. His thoughts are distant as he touches her tresses—loving and reverent; transfixed.

After a few moments, Ros takes hold of his hand, guiding it down to the laces of her bodice. She begins to undo the ties then, smooth fingers working quick between Jon’s resting palm. Her breasts swell with each breath and Jon can feel it in his hand. The sensation shoots straight to his cock, which manages to grow even harder still, throbbing in his britches.

And before long, Ros has fully unlaced her bodice. She draws back and allows him to take in the sight.

Pale and pink and pert—

_They’re..._

His mouth is dry—hand still hovering on the hem of her limp bodice. 

Ros smiles then—an earnest pull of her lips as she looks down on Jon with warmed acknowledgement. “So polite,” she says sweetly, taking his hand once more and moving it gently to her right breast. She fans his fingers with the press of her own.

_Gods._

The feel is all silk and heaven, resting heavy and soft in Jon’s palm. And with awed attention, Jon rubs a thumb across her nipple, his movements tender; the skin tightening beneath his affections.

“But you are allowed to touch.” Ros continues with emphasis. Shifting in his lap, she parts her legs then, grazing the swell of his erection with the slide of her silked skirts. And Jon can feel the rub of her mound against his cock. “I want you to,” Ros continues. “It’s not oft a man as lovely as—”

And it’s then that she slips a hand between them, her fingers grazing the clothed swell of his cock. But the immediacy of it—the focused attention and warmth—It’s too much. So with a strangled grunt, Jon jerks back his hand; hips slamming fast against the chair’s wooden back, just beyond the reach of Ros’ open palm.

His breath comes heavy. And with a sickening surge, Jon feels shame crest swift beyond the yearning—shame over having pulled away; shame over having wanted it.

He casts his gaze down, jaw set and eyes searching, flicking back and forth through his thoughts—searching for a balm or an answer; for a reprieve.

But a voice of comfort soon calms his upset. “It’s alright,” Ros coos, rubbing a thumb along the curved slope of his cheekbone as she tilts his chin towards her. “We’ll take it slower then,” she promises, an honest smile crinkling to the corners of her eyes

And with this, Jon eases—letting out a long breath, adjusting his legs beneath her. He nods, thankful and deferential; the movement grounding if nothing else.

“Theon says you plan to take the black,” Ros says then, shifting to step off him.

And to this, Jon nods, embarrassed at the clear realization that his suspicions were correct—that she does indeed know _exactly_ who he is—

_Must know everything._

But the clip of her kindness surprises him. “It’s brave.” Ros says impressed, taking a sip of her wine before pausing, glass glinting as it’s lowered, a serious look painting fast across her face. “Why?” she asks.

And Jon clears his throat in answer, adjusting himself in the chair—back straight. “I’m a bastard,” he says, hovering just on the edge of trust. “There’s no life for me here…” he hesitates, “... in Winterfell.” The edge is crossed in the next moment—on a swell of ale and longing. Jon huffs out a breath and speaks quietly. “It’s Robb’s…” A whisper then, “Never mine.”

She seems to understand, sighing softly before returning to him. And it’s there that Ros stands over him, reaching out her hands to cup his face.

Jon holds her gaze, his eyes heavy—fluttering—as she begins to rake at the hairs curled light on his temples, his neck, his chin. “Doesn’t the Watch make you swear off girls?” she asks.

Aching, Jon nods absently. But in the moment, he cannot fully register the loss—cannot focus on anything beyond the cherished strokes of her hands at his face; loving and doting and sweet and—

_Gods, her hands._

—everything he’s ever wanted.

“Hmm,” Ros answers. But she says nothing more and before long, her caress is moving down across his chest. Here, she takes her time, hands soft along the tack of leather. Caressing and smoothing, she lingers awhile before dipping lower, along the flat cant of his belly and then to the crease of his hips. But here, she does not touch, skipping over his throbbing groin and moving instead to the length of his thighs, all the way down to his knees. But she stops there.

The suddenness of the break has Jon’s heart sinking. And with that, he opens his eyes, desperate for more.

Her stare is grey and open; patient and waiting. She is asking, Jon understands of her—asking his permission; her hands resting warm and still on his knees.

And so stealing himself on the steady thread of an exhale, Jon nods.

Smiling in answer, Ros hums and renews her ministrations, gliding the swell of her palm along his legs and towards the place where he longs for her most.

Here, her touch is gentle at first—cupping his cock through the wool of his trousers. And it feels so good it makes Jon’s throat ache, his teeth sore with it.

Ros continues stroking then, palming his length through the fabric. And before long she is undoing the plackets to his breeches—reaching inside.

_Gods!_

The touch alone sends a jolt through Jon. Her hand is so soft—ten times softer than his own. And the things she does are—

Jon lets out a quiet groan as Ros’ fingers close around him. She moves lightly at first, barely circling the length of him. But soon, she begins to pull in earnest, gripping and tugging from root to tip, each move culminating in the easy swirl of a thumb atop seeping crown.

_Gods I’m—_

And lost in it, Jon allows the fantasy to wash over him. He could love her, he thinks—take her away from here. He knows he doesn’t have much to offer—

_About to—_

—but he would give her his heart, he would—

But Ros interrupts his thoughts, drawing back. 

Jon opens his eyes at this, head light and cock throbbing. He moans at the loss of her—so tremblingly close to the edge of his peak—but all the same, he does his best to focus.

With a warm grin, Ros moves her hands to the hem of her skirts then, raking them up to offer Jon a view. She’s wearing nothing beneath and the sight is enough to steal what little breath he has left in his lungs. The thatch of hair is as red as that atop her head—her sex pink and wet and glistening.

And now the churn of lust gallops into raw desire—heavy and thick between Jon’s legs; hot and hard in his throat. Jon is mad with it now and he feels he might spill from just the view alone. He’d like to bury himself inside her, he thinks—kiss her and release his seed and then—

_With child..._

His stomach sinks at the suddenness of the thought—the reality sobering. And it’s then that shame washes over him—shame at having entertained the illusion that he might have stolen her from this place; offered her a life beyond these walls—offered her anything more than a bastard’s life and bastard children and—

Jon’s erection begins to fade, his eyes closing in a slow draw of anguish.

_Fool._

“Jon?” Ros asks, his dismay noticeable. “What’s wrong?” She reaches out a hand, as if to comfort him.

But Jon finds he cannot accept such attentions. And at her touch, he jumps up as if burned, knocking back the chair.

Ros looks startled—her gaze concerned. Though for herself or for Jon, he could not say.

Jon shakes his head, shoving a hand in his britches—adjusting himself and doing up the laces. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, stuttering. “I—I can’t.” He says, the knot in his throat thick—tears threatening in his eyes. “Thank you—I’m—” he rubs an angry hand along his mouth before stilling—looking to Ros with eyes black and watering. “I’m sorry.”

And with that Jon turns, stalking to the door and wrenching it open. He steps out into the corridor then, rushing off as the door slams shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol / a lack of clear, verbal consent

Jon sniffles, his nose wet and pink from the cold—mouth tucking into a quiet frown before slackening on a part; twin clouds of steam rushing thick from each nostril. Around him, a blanket of snow swallows much of the night’s darkness, its heavy pall gleaming blue and soft in the echoed moonlight. As Jon stands by, idly unsaddling his mount—slipping straps of leather from their hold, Stark men bustle around the clearing.

The cracking of hammers sound, joined by the hoots and hums of their wielded effort—men rousing tents, skinning deer, and settling horses amongst the trees. Jon, meanwhile, continues his work silently, jaw set in concentration—its clench born not of the task’s difficulty, but rather of Jon’s insistent focus. For inevitably, with the darkness, comes those creeping licks of thought, which Jon tries so desperately to keep at bay.

_Her red hair…_

Jon’s stomach drops, a surge of shame and lust battling within.

_…And the way she—_

He furrows his brow and grunts angrily, pulling the reins roughly from the saddle’s horn. He tries to refocus.

_The Watch..._

Jon’s head feels heavy, throbbing with the dull ache of avoidance—these half-purposed thoughts far too fledgling to gain much ground in their defense. Yet still he tries.

_...Noble and honorable…_

This cloud of focus pulses weakly in its advance, and soon, one thought manages to take hold, cutting cleanly through the haze as a blitz of ease.

_I’ll be a ranger—_

Jon takes a deep, steadying breath. And with an unsettled wash of calm, he guides his mare to a tall aspen, its bare branches casting a shadow stretching longer than the tree itself, clawing its way naked and black across the snow, through which Jon passes.

_But—_

He slings the ropes around the tree’s stretched arm—

_When Ros—_

—Knotting it once before doubling it.

_—Enough!_

The knot holds, but Jon’s resistance does not; his thoughts slipping back on the chuffed defeat of a sour laugh.

_It doesn’t matter._

He shuts his eyes, a groan curdling thick in the back of his throat.

_Coward. Baseborn and—_

His eyes open.

_Bastard._

And there, once more, hangs that word, ringing ugly and sharp in Jon’s head. And _Gods_ , how Jon hates it.

But his brooding is interrupted, as Robb suddenly appears at his side, clapping a gloved hand rough on Jon’s shoulder. “Snow,” he starts, boyish grin stretched taut above square jaw. But when he catches sight of Jon’s expression, his smile falters. “Jon,” Robb says, dropping his voice. “What’s the matter?”

Jon does his best to muster a smile in return. “It’s nothing—” he answers, glance casting down towards his boots. He tries to change the subject. “You did well today—” he sniffs, “—managed to take down that doe.” Jon looks up “How many arrows was it?”

Robb, curiosity seemingly sated, grins. “Only two—how did you fare? I lost sight of you.”

Jon laughs, hoping the sound isn’t quite as bitter as it feels. “I couldn’t even manage a rabbit.” Though in truth, Jon had barely attempted a shot, loosing only one half-hearted arrow during the hunt—its shaft splintering numbly against the bark of a tree, his mind decidedly elsewhere. For it had been not a fortnight since that evening at the brothel, and Jon had found it difficult to focus on much else.

“Well—there’s always next time,” Robb says.

It’s a game that Robb seems insistent on playing—ignoring Jon’s impending departure; acting as though the closeness of their childhood might stretch on forever. But in truth, they both know their time is limited. The King and Queen are set to arrive within the next few days. And Jon imagines with their journey North, will come significant change.

He’s ready to leave, he thinks—ready to be a man; to prove himself. But for now, Jon only smiles in answer—allowing Robb the fantasy.

“Aye—next time.”

“Well,” Robb grins, seemingly satisfied. “You should join Theon and I by the fire—have some wine.” He laughs, “He’s brought enough skins to last us all the way through next Winter.”

“Right,” Jon nods, licking his lips, as if in thought. “I’ll be over in a moment.”

Robb smiles heartily and takes his leave.

Jon’s mare whickers restlessly, and so he pulls off a glove, pressing his naked palm to the sweat-soaked, soft bristle of the horse’s neck. “Shhh,” He clucks his tongue, “It’s alright, sweet girl.”

Jon stands there a moment, lost and unspoken in the touch. That is, until his father strides over.

Ned’s hair is pulled back to reveal his face, chiseled and red—small lines tucked in at the corners of his eyes, saved for those tender smiles he has always reserved for his children. And now as they are, ten paces apart—his father silhouetted by the setting sun—Jon thinks, as he has many times before, that he has never admired any man more.

But this time, the feeling is accompanied by a sinking of his stomach—thrust forth by the viscosity of Jon’s inner turmoil. _Could his father have used a woman the way he himself could not_ , Jon wonders.

Jon swallows the lump in his throat as his father closes the space between them. “Where’s your head at?” Ned asks, reaching out a gloved hand to tousle Jon’s hair as he had done when Jon was a boy. Jon’s head is rocked back and forth from his father’s attentions, and in the ritual, Jon is once more, put at ease. “You barely drew one arrow,” his father continues warmly. “Have you been ducking out on your lessons with Ser Rodrik?” 

“I’m just—” Jon takes a deep breath, air filling his chest as if its empty swell might offer up a suitable answer. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders in defeat. “—distracted.” Jon begins patting his mare with renewed vigor and tries again for more clarity. “...Thinking, I suppose.”

Ned smiles. “Hm, no good can come of that.”

There is a moment of silence between them then. And the horse adjusts her weight, snorting as if in agreement. Still, Jon lets the quiet build, offering a weak grin in half-hearted accord.

And then, as if in knowing, Ned moves his hand to his son’s shoulder, demanding Jon’s attention by meeting his gaze. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he says softly. And whether Ned knows of what he speaks, Jon cannot say. But the words are like a balm, and so Jon finds himself lapping at them eagerly. Touched and embarrassed, he shuffles his feet and looks down at the snow, shrugging again in lieu of an answer.

“Now,” his father continues, bracing his arm and jostling Jon in the process, “Go join your brother and Theon, hm? Have some ale.”

And so, under the warmed discomfort of a word-thin and paternal soothing, Jon returns his father’s stare, nodding in answer; in thanks.

The moment lasts a moment or two before Ned removes his hand and turns to go. Jon, for his part, turns towards the campfire and makes his way over.

The boys are sitting, flanked on both sides by Winterfell guards—Jory sat across from them. Jon finds a space on the log and settles himself next to Jory, reaching out to take the offered wineskin. He takes a hearty swig.

The company is pleasant and the drink warm—quick barbs tossed back and forth on wine-soaked tongues. And an hour or so passes before the guards retire—ambling drunkenly to their sleeping furs amidst grunts and groans. Jory is only a few minutes behind them.

And then, all who remain are Robb, Theon, and Jon, seated in triangle around the dwindling fire.

The flames crack and the embers seethe, hissing in heat as they assert their red blaze.

“Snow,” Theon begins, slurring—his crooked teeth exposed in a leering grin, “D’you ever plan on taking a woman?”

Jon hates the flush that rises to his cheeks, and for what feels like the hundredth time today, he shrugs his shoulders rather than answer. Angry, he takes a pull from the wineskin and focuses on the fire.

“Hmm,” Theon laughs. “A man then?”

At this, Jon bristles, snapping his head up. He meets Theon’s gaze with a cold stare.

Theon grins, holding his hands up in a gesture of retreat. “Alright, alright,” he laughs. “But if you were to,” he takes another gulp of wine and belches, wiping the back of his hand across wine-red lips. “Now’s the time to do it,” he continues, “‘Fore your cock shrivels up from disuse.”

Robb senses the tension and offers up a light fret of warning. “Theon—”

But Theon continues on, bolstered by drink and the thrill of ease at Jon’s quickness to rile. “But no, I suppose it won’t—long as you’ve still got yer right hand.” He makes a lewd gesture as Jon rises to a stand, a tendon ticking in his temple; his jaw ground firmly shut.

Despite Robb’s calls to return, Jon turns from the fire then, unbuckling his leathers as he stalks over to his furs. He shrugs off his cloak, and then his jerkin; tossing it roughly to the side, where it lands in a creased pile of boiled moonlight.

Swallowing bitterly, Jon throws his body down with an angry growl—his whisker-roughened cheek rubbing soft against the wolf-skin furs. He rolls then to grab his discarded cloak, dragging the fabric so that it covers his form—body pulling taut as Jon curls his knees to his chest.

He lies like this for a while, listening to Robb and Theon’s laughter; to an owl’s hoot coiling hollowly through the naked branches of the forest. Jon stirs at this, the edges of slumber gnawing at his consciousness. And finally, he falls asleep to the tune of an elk’s bugle braying lone and lofty in the distance.

His dreams are a blur of heat, lust, and footsteps. Ros strokes his face, his chest, his fingers. She licks up the nape of his neck, a hand fisting tight and hot in his breeches. He moans with it, snapping his hips to the beat of her fist. The world is red, Jon’s vision sweating. And suddenly, with his throat dry and his cock standing stiff between his legs, Jon wakes.

The night is still and empty, and Jon cranes his neck to find the fireside similarly so—both Robb and Theon long since returned to fur pallets of their own. But the quiet is soon broken.

“Snow” Jon hears from behind him, snapping his attentions to Theon, who lies a few feet away, his eyes blinking gray in the dark.

Jon sighs and sinks back into his furs, hoping to hide any physical evidence of the nature of his dreams.

But Theon does not let him off so easily. “You were moaning” he grins, “rutting and whimpering like a woman.”

“Fuck off, Greyjoy” Jon snaps tiredly, moving to turn away from Theon. But Theon reaches out before Jon can do so, pinning Jon’s shoulder to the ground as he moves to loom over him. They make eye-contact then—black stare held firm by blue.

In this, Theon’s gaze is asking—vulnerable and open—bereft of all the malice Jon so normally sees. It’s almost as if Theon is afraid.

Jon steals a breath and a moment stretches between them—then another and another. Through it, Jon’s breathing is labored; his cock still thick with longing. And he finds the pressure on his shoulder is not as unwelcome as it might otherwise have been.

And then, as if sensing the break in Jon’s resistance, Theon moves his free hand to the placket of Jon’s breeches, cupping the swell of Jon’s cock through the starch stretch of wool. Jon hisses at the contact, his hips rising to meet Theon’s attentions, a heady lack of control blinding Jon’s vision as Theon’s fingers trace the ridge of his shaft. He squeezes then, and Jon lets out a gasp.

And it’s only a matter of seconds more before Theon is undoing the ties of Jon’s britches with an urgent fumbling of fingers. He dives his hand inside and closes around Jon’s swollen flesh, his fingers so unlikely in their softness.

Theon’s hand is firm and quick as he begins to pull on Jon’s cock, fisting from base to tip; base to tip, until, in but a minute, Jon is crying out, warmth spilling hot and wet into Theon’s hold.

And when Jon’s cock stops pulsing, the ache of relief turned nausea, Jon steals himself to meet Theon’s stare, only to find surprising tenderness in return.

They share no words, and in the night’s silence, Theon removes his hand from Jon’s softening shaft, wiping it down in the snow as Jon sits up to retie his britches—the wool now slicked with sweat and seed.

He thinks to say something then—to rebuke Theon, or maybe even to thank him. But before he can do so, Theon offers up a weak smile and retreats to his furs. He turns his back to Jon and with that, the moment passes.

And so Jon leaves it—the memory of shared grief ( _was it?_ ) and stolen touches already starting to slip; dissolving fast into the darkness of the night. He understands now, lying here, that neither he nor Theon will ever speak of this moment. And in that—in that shared secrecy—Jon finds an intimate sort of ease.

He swallows a lungful of air then, mirroring Theon’s withdrawal, and turns to face away. And with eyes already shut, Jon adjusts his hips within the snow-firm grooves of the forest floor—moving to tuck his hands, clasped, beneath his cheek as he settles.

He should be ashamed, he thinks. Or confused. Or perhaps even resigned. But as of now, all Jon can muster is a feeling of deep, bone-weary tiredness. And so, Jon drifts back to a dreamless sleep, the elks of the forest struck decidedly silent.


End file.
